Tidbits
by PollyCrackers
Summary: A collection of short fics based off prompts from the Mary Marshall board at LJ.  Mostly PG, but there's one M lurking in here.


A collection of fics from two rounds of comment fic on the Mary_Marshall board over at LJ. Thanks to my fellow LJers for the prompts!

**Stories run the gamut from G to M – though they're all short, so really, how M can you get? Also, there's a supporting-character death piece in here, in case you'd rather avoid such things.**

**I don't own these folks.**

* * *

**Mary/Marshall, Stan; a clean shirt; "it's a bird"**

Marshall smiled a bit as Mary hung up the phone, unsure how wide a swath his partner's wrath would cut. She offered her "all clear, at least as far as you're concerned" half-smile. Marshall dared a comment. "You I'd hate to say anything negative about your family-"

"Which is ridiculous, because they deserve it, but, continue on," she interrupted.

"They really ought to come with a snooze alarm."

Mary looked wistful. "I once shot an alarm clock."

"I do not doubt that." Marshall swiveled in his chair as Mary grabbed her coat and headed for the elevator. "You going to tell me what's going on?"

"You'll find out soon enough," she called over her shoulder.

Mary scowled as she returned to the office, a cardboard file box tucked under her arm and a shopping bag slung over her shoulder. Stan and Marshall looked up from the table near the kitchenette where they were reviewing a case file. Mary flung the bag unceremoniously onto the counter before carefully setting down the box, scootching it inward from the edge.

"What's up, Mare?" inquired Marshall cautiously. "A present from your sister? She's either very early or very late for your birthday?"

Stan stood and peered into the box. "It's a bird."

Ignoring Stan, Mary began to empty out the shopping bag. "Brandi," she muttered as she shook her head.

"The bird's not Brandi, though, right?" Marshall now stood looking into the box as well. Sure enough, a chick looked back at him, covered in fluff and pin feathers. "You didn't get really angry and turn Brandi into a bird, did you?"

Stan would have liked a chance to get out of the line of fire before Marshall started to poke rattlesnake Mary with a stick.

For her part, Mary only scowled at Marshall, or perhaps it was the same scowl she'd been wearing since she'd walked in the door. "It's an Amazon," she said, as though that clarified everything.

Stan and Marshall wore looks that suggested otherwise.

She then busied herself in the kitchenette, all while explaining about old Mrs. Rodney from two doors down and her no-good niece who somehow came into possession of a baby bird and how at that point someone must have cried, because all of the sudden Brandi jumps in and says she'll take the bird, never mind that she has no idea how to feed the damn thing, but of course big-sister Mary will arrive and save the day, because certainly she has no other pressing engagements beyond an orphaned parrot.

Marshall misses most of the explanation, for while Mary's mouth has been spitting breathless piss and vinegar, her hands have worked with confident grace. Where Marshall was expecting slamming cabinets and perhaps a broken dish or two, there is only Mary's long fingers scrubbing utensils, meticulous and quiet, before heating water and mixing it with powder pulled from the bag. Baby bird formula, he correctly surmises. The resulting concoction smells sweet and grainy, like rice or corn.

Her diatribe over, Mary focuses on the task at hand, testing the formula's temperature on her wrist before filing a large syringe. Marshall looks over to find his boss similarly fascinated by Mary's behavior; her focus so intent on the bird, he wonders if she realizes they're still in the room. The two men stay frozen, watching as Mary sets the little bundle of feathers on the countertop; the chick clearly recognizes the routine and has begun to chirp demandingly. "Hey, you no-good ball of prickles," Mary coos at the bird and scratches his head gently before nudging the syringe into his beak. He slurped down the formula enthusiastically, some drips escaping to clump in the feathers on his face. "Yeah, my morning routine was fucked as well."

Mary tosses the empty syringe into the sink and finally returns her attention to the humans in the room. Stan looks bewildered, still; Marshall grins. Mary strokes the chick's wing absently. "What?" she asks with faux annoyance-even she can see the situation is a tad unexpected. "There was a bird store near Brandi's elementary school. The owners let her hang out there when I couldn't watch her, and slipped me some cash under the table for helping when I could."

"He's not going to be here every day, is he?" inquired Stan, trying to sound boss-like.

"No, I'll figure something out."

"Good," replied Stan as he retreated to his office. "And let's try to have fewer surprises this afternoon."

"You going to stand there grinning like an idiot all day?" Mary asked her partner.

"Maybe."

"I know." Mary began, inviting the parrot to step onto to her hand. He was a little unsteady, so she held him close to her chest, her other hand hovering near, ready if he wobbled too much. "Not exactly the kind of thing you expect me to do."

Marshall stepped close and pet the little creature. "You going to keep him?"

"I don't know. Probably not. But I'll look after him till he gets his feet under him, so to speak."

"That's exactly the kind of thing I expect you to do." Marshall squeezed Mary's shoulder and smiled. Their eyes met, gazes locked for a moment longer than usual, enjoying the sensations of understanding and being understood. Marshall dared a chaste kiss to her temple before gathering up the abandoned case file and moving towards his desk.

Mary leaned against the counter, experiencing her own moment of bewilderment.

Her partner called her back to reality with a loud whisper. "Psst-I'd also expect you to change into a clean shirt."

Mary looked down at the parrot wiping his beak and smearing partially congealed formula across her shirt. "You're lucky you're a cute little bastard," she grumbled down at him.

"I know," chimed Marshall from his desk.

**

* * *

**

**Mary/Marshall; The Princess Bride quotes**

Marshall was in heaven. And hell. Heaven, because he was sitting naked in Mary's bed, suckling on her breast while she ground against him in sensible cotton panties. Hell, because she'd suddenly scampered off with no explanation other than a mischievious glint in her eye.

She returned only moments later, skin still flushed from Marshall's attention, something hidden behind her back. "Close your eyes."

Marshall raised an eyebrow in question, but he was willing to do whatever it took to get her back within reach. He closed his eyes. He reached out for her when he felt the bed dip beneath her weight; she captured his hand and kissed the palm before pressing it to her breast, causing them both to moan. He felt her heat and dampness as she straddled him once again. "Mare..." he whispered.

"Shhh..." she cooed as she pressed him back into the pillows. "Just lay back and and enjoy the ride."

Marshall kept his eyes closed, even as she kissed a trail from his neck to his hips; muttered something incomprehensible as she nuzzled her cheek against his cock. Then there was an unexpected flood of cool and wet across his hips and his eyes flew open to reveal Mary hovering over him, bottle of Hershey's syrup in her hands and a mad grin across her face. "Oh god oh oh god..." he chanted as though any mere deity could help him now.

Mary drew the tip of her tongue up the length of Marshall's erection, making a path through sweet liquid, before kissing him deeply on the lips. She pulled back to place a chaste kiss at his temple before whispering in his ear: "The chocolate coating makes it go down easier."

Oh yes. Definitely heaven. And hell.

* * *

**Mary, Marshall, Brandi (or Mary/Marshall): my kitchen is on fire**

Mary had her nose in the Sunday morning sports page and her hand on her coffee when Brandi came in from her Saturday night date with Peter. She smiled knowingly as her sister closed the door and tossed her purse on the sofa. "That Peter, looks like a good guy, but he keeps you out way past curfew."

Brandi returned the smirk as she poured herself a cup of coffee and hopped up to perch on the kitchen counter. "There was an emergency." She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the memory. "We nearly set the bedroom on fire."

"Really?" replied Mary, nonchalantly. "That's quite a coincidence; my kitchen was on fire."

Brandi looked around, a bit confused. "We are talking about the same kind of fire, right?"

Just then, Marshall emerged from Mary's bedroom, freshly showered and barefoot.

"Oh...oh!" Brandi exclaimed, leaping off the counter as though it were, in fact, on fire.

Mary smiled at Marshall and took a sip of coffee. "'O' is right."

* * *

**mary/marshall; "put your weapon down" by Justin Nozuka**

Marshall respected Mary's need for solitude as she tried to piece her life back together after Brandi's death. Truth be told, he surprised how much she seemed to let him in. Some days it was only to smile weakly from the doorway to her bedroom when he brought in groceries or did laundry; other days she'd come to his house unannounced and quietly curl up on the sofa with her head in his lap. He had yet to see her cry.

She respected his worry even as she grieved, always answering when he called, or at least sending a text that she didn't feel like talking.

Which is why Marshall's heart rate began to climb as call after call went unanswered that evening, why he sped across town to her house and why he didn't bother to knock before using his key. He called for her as he searched the house. Not in the living room, nor her bedroom. Not out by the pool.

The door to Brandi's room was ajar. He pushed it open gently, then froze. "Mary," he whispered painfully.

She sat slumped over on the bed, her unwashed hair hiding her face. She held her Glock in her hands, finger near the trigger, the side of the weapon pressed against her forehead as though it were an icepack to soothe a headache. She turned at the sound of her name, skin blotchy and eyes swollen. She stared at Marshall a moment, as though it took time for her to register just who he was. She looked back at the gun in her hand.

Marshall took a step forward when what he really wanted to do was race to her, hold her, chase her demons away. "Mare, put your weapon down."

"It hurts, Marshall."

"I know, baby," he replied, unable to hold back the term of endearment or the waiver in his voice. "I know."

Mary held the weapon out in her palm, unwilling to cause Marshall the kind of pain she felt right now. He placed it on the dresser before sitting on the bed and pulling her into his lap, whispering nonsense and stroking her hair as she cried.

* * *

**Mary/Marshall, fulfilling his/her deepest fantasy**

Marshall follwed Mary up her front walk, her suitcase in hand. He'd just picked her up from the airport after a three-day seminar. He took the keys from her just Mary was about to unlock her front door. She raised a suspicious eyebrow at him, her relief at finally being home making her unusually tolerant of her partner's hijinks.

"Close your eyes," said Marshall as he opened the door. "It's a surprise."

With one hand over her eyes and one at her elbow, Marshall guided Mary through her house. She knew she'd been led to her spare bedroom, which had become little more than a huge clutter-attracting closet.

Marshall stood close behind, still covering her eye, whispered in her ear. "Ready to have your deepest fantasy fulfilled?"

Mary grinned. "Mickey Rourke's in my crap room?"

Marshall flicked her arm playfully. "No Mickey Rourke," he replied, before uncovering Mary's eyes, "but there's no crap room anymore, either."

Mary experienced a rare moment of speechlessness as she looked around the room. The clutter had been cleared, revealing a leather couch and matching recliner. In place of the clutter was a wall lined with oak shelves, and on the adjacent wall, a quietly elegant mission-style gun cabinet. On the shelves? Box after box of ammuntion.

"I have a bullet room," she whispered, incredulous. She turned to Marshall, whose entire face was grinning. "This is too much."

"Nah," said Marshall, standing with his hands in his pockets. "Ms. Galloway was very appreciative of the effort we put into saving her life last month. She made the cabinet just for you; it's one of a kind."

Mary traced the lines of the beautiful oak furniture before turning back to Marshall. "There's just one problem."

"Really?"

Mary crossed the room to her partner. "This isn't my deepest fantasy." She took his arm and led him to the sofa and pushed him down. She took his head in her hands and straddled his lap. "This is," she said, pressing her lips to his.

* * *

**Mary, Marshall, anyone; Rocky Horror, midnight, on stage**

Half an hour before midnight, Mary sank into her overstuffed sofa with an ice-cold beer and a sigh. Jinx was away at a dance competition, while Brandi and Peter had just left the house in their underwear.

"Sure you don't want to come? The Rocky Horror sing-along only comes but once a year," Brandi had cajoled, dressed in a bra and slip. Peter stood beside her, looking a smidge too comfortable wearing a tee and boxers in his girlfriend's sister's living room.

Mary was already rifling through the fridge in anticipation of an evening to herself. "What part of 'Rocky Horror sing-along' sounds like something I would enjoy?"

Brandi didn't miss a beat. "Whore?" she snarked playfully.

"'Horror' is how they're going to describe the scene if you two don't get out of here soon." Mary popped the cap off her beer and took a swig. "Go on, now. Scram."

Less than an hour later, Mary's phone buzzed with a text from Brandi. _U wont believe whos onstage_

_A freak in black leather, i presume,_ Mary texted back.

Brandi's next message included a photo. Mary tossed her cheesy poofs aside and headed out the door.

Mary parked her car in a loading zone right in front of the theatre, fully prepared to use her badge as proof she belonged there. Then she simply leaned against the hood and waited, predatory. There was no missing the no-nonsense blonde and her crazy-vivid purple car.

Marshall tried, though. He mixed with crowd, hoping she wouldn't recognize him.

"Hey, Frank," she called out, looking straight at him with her best you'd-better-start-explaining-fast look. Fortunately for Marshall it was the endlessly amused version of the look, not the cranky hellbeast version.

Emboldened by his partner's mischievous grin, Marshall sauntered over to her, as steady as though he were wearing cowboy boots. Except that he was wearing stillettos.

The sight of Marshall as Frank-N-Furter took Mary aback for a moment. She stiffled a few giggles. But there was some else there, too. The skimpy black outfit left little to the imagination. His legs looked impossibly strong and slim in the fishnet stockings; the corset top revealed trim abs. It was all the benefits of fancy lingerie, but without the hassle of _her_ having to wear it.

Marshall picked up on the glimpse of lust in Mary's eyes and stepped close. "You come here to tell me something?" he whispered through red-stained lips.

Mary traced a finger down a fit chest criss-crossed with laces, then splayed her hand across the taut skin about his black panty. "Touch-a, touch-a, touch me," she answered.

* * *

**Marshall, Mary, trivia about your hometown**

"Krista?" Marshall called out. He and Mary were at their new witness' house, ready to escort her back to Albuquerque. No one had answered repeated knocking.

They found safe and sound in the backyard, under a pergola overtaken by a mammoth wisteria in full bloom.

"It's customary to keep the doors locked when homicidal masterminds want you dead," was Mary's idea of a greeting.

"Sorry," replied Krista. "Just can't wrap my brain around the idea that I'm not safe in this house." She picked up a fallen fig leaf and smoothed it between her palms. "This lot is bigger than others in the neighborhood," she began saying to no one in particular. "It was a lot-and-a half originally. The house was the model, and the sales office was back here, where the garage is now. A chunk of the property washed away in the flood of '38, but it's still big for the neighborhood. The WPA built the dams and the barranca after that."

Mary toed Marshall in the calf. He shushed her silent protest with a look, then followed Krista as she crossed the yard and stood under the orange tree. A train whistled in the distance. "Albuquerque is just a another stop on the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe."

Krista smiled. "We do love our trains around here. Moved an entire Union Pacific depot to save it from demolition."

"I hear you love your guitars as well. Birthplace of Leo Fender's Telecaster."

"What I really love is gelato-there's the best little place downtown. Please tell me there's a little gelato shop in Albuquerque."

"Not that I know of," said Marshall, leading Krista away from her house and into the waiting SUV. "But maybe one day."

There's a little shop in Old Town that serves gelato and Italian ices. Marshall and Mary never pay for their waffle cones. Marshall tips generously; so does Mary, but surreptitiously. Every December the owner sets up an artificial tree, a joyously gaudy affair in silver tinsle bedecked with all the tiny electric guitars and train cars she's collected over the years

* * *

**Peter/Brandi, an explanation for the preppy tennis outfits**

Mary cocked her head, trying to understand the scene before her. Peter and Brandi smiling broadly in pastels, looking like a pair of Easter eggs that'd just rolled out of the basket.

_And no doubt cracked,_ she thought.

Brandi made vague promises of marrying and moving out, but Mary was distracted by the sight of Jinx coming through the front door. Peter and Brandi were forgotten as Mary stared, mouth agape, as her mother set her keys and briefcase on the kitchen table. "You wouldn't believe the day I had in court today," Jinx began, as she toed off her pumps and hung her jacket on a chair. "But I said I'd make dinner for everyone, and a girl's got to keep her promises." She opened the fridge. "I'm going to have some lemonade - anyone else want some?"

_Lemonade is so not going to cut it in this situation._

"Mary!" The shout of a famiilar voice broke Mary from her confusion.

"Marshall?" She called out in response. _But I don't remember him coming over to the house._ She followed the sounds of a fight to her bedroom. "Marshall? Talk to me, Marshall!" She swung open the door to find her partner engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a giant pink rabbit.

The rabbit had Marshall pinned against the wall. "Mary?" he asked, astoundingly calm for a man in his predicament. "Are you okay?"

"Huh?" was all Mary could muster.

"Mary, it's okay."

There was a touch at her shoulder and Mary jerked awake, momentarily confused until she registered the inside of the SUV, a gas station in the New Mexican desert, and her partner's hand on her arm.

"You called out in your sleep. Bad dream?"

"Was turning out that way for you," Mary sing-songed as she got out of the car and stretched.

Marshall put his hands on his hips and sighed. "Please don't tell me it was the bunny rabbit. Again."


End file.
